


Men of Few Words

by ArtHistory



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Belly Kink, Feeding Kink, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Fallout: New Vegas, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:05:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtHistory/pseuds/ArtHistory
Summary: Boone and Courier 6 are simple men. They talk plain. They don't need much. And in making do with less, the two men come to share their lives, and Boone somehow consumes more.





	Men of Few Words

The Courier was quiet, but Boone supposed that wasn’t unusual for a man that had been shot in the head. 

His thick, dark hair covered the scar when the Courier took the time to play with it, run his dust-stained fingers through it enough to to flatten the curls down before starting the day. But when he first woke up. When his grey eyes were still soft with sleep, his night shirt rucked down around one shoulder from his endless squirming, you could see it.

A long, red line. It stretched from the very top of his forehead to the back of his skull, forcing apart his hairline on the right side of his head so that his soft, raven-colored hair parted naturally around it, highlighting and showing off just what the Courier had lived through. He’d told Boone once that the man who had found him was a doctor, and he must’ve been a damn good one too, given it looked as though Benny - the man who’d shot the glorified mailman  - had cracked the Courier’s skull like an egg.

It wasn’t an image Boone liked to think about, so he usually made an extra effort to look at the man’s often sunburnt, always pleased looking face. He would always smile when Boone did this, the Courier. Close his eyes like a trusting cat, his throat occasionally letting out a coarse little hum or, rarely, a “Good morning”.

Lately, he’d wrap his muscular arms around Boone and slowly force the blonde ex-solder back down onto the ground, holding him there, willing them both another ten minutes of sleep. Boone would usually acquiesce, only refusing if he heard a noise nearby, or if they’d slept beyond the sun’s highest point, which was becoming more and more often.

The Courier’s Pip Boy read “Eleven”, “Noon”, even “One P.M.” just this week upon their first waking up, and Boone would have to grumble and complain for the Courier to let him go, the man’s arms around tighter around Boone’s chest as he purred into the back of Boone’s neck.

Boone could remember why they’d stopped using two tents. It was just after the Battle for Hoover Dam. Caesar's Legion had been driven back, the Courier was a hero, and Boone had been right by his side. He’d felt better than he had in a long time. Calmed over what he did in his time in the NCR, his wife’s slave trader dead. He was calm, for the first time in a long time, and starting to feel…

Happy.

He smiled as the Courier smiled at him on that day, taking the man’s hand when it was offered. Boone would’ve followed the man anywhere, so when the Courier had spoken about hunting down the rest of the slave-trading monsters of the Legion now that the region was stable, Boone was more than ready to follow him to the end of the Earth.

They had to travel light, for that. So many of Caesar’s men retreated to the hills, or deeper into the countryside. 

And so, one tent. 

Then two sleeping bags became one, important to make room for more rations, more water. (And Sunset Sarsaparilla, now that Courier had gotten Boone damn addicted to the bubbly, brown sugar water). 

So now, for what felt like a long time now, Boone would wake up in the Courier’s arms, or with his arms around the Courier, one of their heads inevitably tucked into the crook of the other’s shoulder whether they were chest to chest or chest to back. Boone had only ever woken up once with his back to the Courier, and hadn’t thought twice about rolling over, his arms wrapping around the man’s broad chest, cheek finding his beefy shoulder.

And that is the predicament Boone currently found himself in.

“It's nearly 11. We should get up and start getting ready, or we'll be walking in the desert when the sun is highest in the sky.”

The Courier’s beefy, slightly hairy arms only wrapped tighter around his chest. Boone could feel the man's cheek round out with a smile as it pressed into his shoulder, kissed at his cheek.

The kissing was new. It had just started this week. After one too many shots of whiskey after a long day of smiling slave traders, the Courier, cheeks as red as the scar on his head, had leaned in close. His eyes were soft, sleepy almost, but so very inviting.

Boone had kissed him without really thinking. His own brain swimming in not enough whiskey that he had an excuse to behave differently, but just enough to numb the gnawing anxiety that this might...change things. But, of course, he had been sharing a bed with the man for a long time now, and couldn't imagine falling asleep without him. It hadn't been like this, that he so needed a person near him to close his eyes, since...well since his wife.

Boone let out a soft, more chagrined than annoyed sound as the Courier continued to pepper his cheek with kisses, forcing out a smile

“I'm hungry.” Boone finally said, and just like that he was released.

The sleepy-eyed Courier was up and out the tent in a flash, already building a fire as Boone chuckled himself to sitting. He grunted, finding it more difficult than it had been a few weeks ago, before he and the Courier had started becoming...something. He stretched, finding his signature red beret and putting it on, even though the rest of his was nude. He blinked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and fumbled into the Courier’s pack for a Fancy Lad Snack Cake.

Boone hadn't really like pre-war food before all this, but with saving the entire Mojave came caps, and it seemed all the Courier was interested in spend his loot on was bullets and sugar. The entire pack was full to bursting with the treats, and usually remained so, the Courier buying up the entire stock of whatever trader they passed by, giving Boone no indication of just how much sugar was going between his rough, chapped lips.

A lot.

Boone wasn't lying when he said he was hungry. He was hungry often, now, almost all the time. Walking for miles and miles in silence with the Courier wasn't entirely fascinating, and tearing open packages and chomping into chips, cakes, and more gave him something to do with his hands while he was scanning the flat horizon for hostiles. There weren't any. There never were. The Legion was running scared, but still.

Something to do.

Boone stretched again, letting out a sigh as his stomach burbled. Grumbled. He couldn't stop himself from chuckling once more.

“Yeah, yeah.” He said, patting the thing with a calloused, tanned hand.

Bones eyes went a little wider.

That wasn't…

Boone had, his entire life, had a tight, toned, slim stomach. A rock hard six pack had developed during his time in the NCR, and Carla had been simply obsessed with it. Getting half a drink into her meant her purring, demanding her husband shed his dust-stained tee and come closer, the woman smoothing her small, soft hands over his trim waist. He liked that they were smooth, so delicate as they traced in and around the little squares of his well-defined abdominal muscles. His own hands were hard, rough, calloused from where he’d held his gun and chapped from endless days under the relentless desert sun. The Courier’s hands were similar to his own, maybe a little smaller, but certainly more rough. The hands of a man who’d literally dug himself out of his own grave…

Boone snapped back to reality, looking down.

That was not a slim, toned stomach.

Boone’s abs were nowhere to be seen. Stretched then buried beneath a sea of soft, ivory lard. Boone pinched it between his fingers, somewhat in awe. There was more than enough to pinch, and as Boone slid his hands to his sides his found not only love handles, but enough creamy fat to fill up each of his hands. He quickly straightened, watching the thick, squeezable lip of flab below his belly button happily turn from roll to smooth slab of snow skin. He sucked his belly in, realizing that there was still a roundness to it, a thickness and weight that couldn’t easily be hidden.

He exhaled, belly flooding out excitedly into the open air, wobbling above his slightly chubbed cock for all to see just as the Courier re-entered the tent.

Boone, though he’d be naked around the Courier so very many times before, considered covering himself, suddenly aware of his body in a way he hadn’t thought to be before. But the Courier only smiled, as if nothing was wrong, still in his sleep shirt and undergarments, his sunburnt, hairy legs on display beneath the dusty white of his tee and briefs.

“Breakfast.” He grunted, indicating it would be ready soon, but that it was not ready yet, with his tone alone. The air smelled of smoke, and Boone turned his head, getting and impressive view of the Courier’s round, muscular ass as the man dug in one of their rations bags. Boone cocked his head to the side. He’d stopped really looking at people after Carla, but now, after so many weeks, months with the Courier, Boone gulped at just how full, thick,  **meaty** the man’s rear truly was. Apparently walking all across the Mojave had done the man wonders. Boone cleared his throat, feeling his cock begin to stir further, causing the Courier to look back.

He gave a smile, digging out some meat, a few eggs (all gecko, the Courier was surprisingly good at hunting them). He laid them in a pan, then leaned down to kiss Boone’s cheek. Boone found himself moving his head, meeting the man’s lips in a way they hadn’t really done before. The Courier blinked, then smiled wider. Boone’s heart gave a thump, smiling back. He felt words bubble in his throat. He wasn’t one for talking, or all this emotion, but he needed to-

The men froze at the grumble of what sounded like a herd of brahmin rumbling by their tent.

Even though the source of the sound was below them.

Boone and the Courier looked down, Boone’s belly letting out another, softer growl now that eyes were upon it, as if it were suddenly bashful about it’s outburst.

Boone flushed as the Courier laid a head on the flabby thing, giving it’s expanse a rub, then a jiggle. He turned, round arse dancing before Boone’s eyes once again, grabbing a second pan and slapping even more meat onto it. The Courier also tossed the former soldier a full-sized box of sugar bombs, Boone watching as it landed beside him.

Boone grabbed for some clothing, ready to follow the man out and assist, only to feeling the Courier’s lips on his forehead.

“No.” He said, reaching down to open the box, now placing it directly in Boone’s hands, “Eat.” 

Then he gathered up both pans, a pile of steak and eggs, and moved outside, the smell of the cooking fire rich and powerful now.

Boone swallowed. Hard.

His mouth was dry, so dry he reached around until he found a Sunset Sarsaparilla, popping open the soda and draining it in one long, slow gulp, enjoying the burn on his throat, the way the fizz bloated up his-

“Eat”

The command echoed in Boone’s mind, dropping the empty bottle and stuffing his sticky fist into the full-sized box of sugary cereal, grabbing a handful of the sweet flakes and cramming them into his mouth with such continuous force his cheeks bulged, his throat bobbed, each swallow making him feel bigger, rounder, the tight feeling growing and growing in his-

“Eat.”

Boone felt his cock go stiff, slapping at his-

His-

A hot spurt of pre-cum slicked his cock, staining the lowest, softest, fullest piece of Boone’s  **belly.**

That’s what it was now. Not a hard, firm six-pack. Not the midsection of a soldier, of the very definition of eye candy his former wife had seen him as.

Boone ran a hand over it, feeling his stomach growing bigger, rounder, tighter beneath the generous layer of frosting that had been smeared so delicately, so slowly over it that Boone hadn’t even realized he was fattening up like some spoiled, overfed prince. The Courier’s hands. His lips. He wondered how they;d feel grabbing, squeezing, wobbling his overfed, gluttonous little belly.

Boone’s right hand was slick with pre-cum now, and sliding southward until it firmly grasped his aching cock, the head near purple with arousal as his left hand continued to stuff more and more sugar, more empty calories into his noisy, hungry gut.

He pumped, muffling his moans with Sugar Bombs, feeling himself grow, bloat, swell upwards and outwards. He imagined the Courier slotting up behind him, massive cock hard between the full, fatty cheeks of his ass, hands smoothing down Boone’s chest, not pecs but soft, jiggly moobs, teasing his brown nipples and nibbling on his neck as one hand traced southward, not a word between them as he grabbed handful after handful of rich, lardy fat, the man’s waistline an empire to itself, stretching like the horizon of the Mojave, Boone’s own hands forcing more and more rations into his chubby cheeks, his second chin wobbling as the Courier wobbled his great, fatty-

Boone’s hand hit the ground beneath him roughly.

He was jolted out of his fantasy, right hand still pumping. His breath was ragged, coming in hard huffs and puffs, cheeks red from the effort of eating so much, so quickly. Boone continued to feel with his left hand, realizing that he had emptied the entire box.

His pumping slowed to an agonizing pace as his left hand shook off the box, moving with his eyes until both found the mountainous stretch of his gut. Boone groaned. He burped, the fullness hitting him like a wave. His stomach was stretched tight, spherical. Without thinking he reached forward, latching onto a small handful of his lower gut, stretching that skin further, the pressure on his gut so-

“Ah! O-URP!” Boone cried, belching as he painted the broad expanse of his gut with his pleasure.

He fell back, panting desperately, his gut rising noisily up above him, quivering, shaking in its fullness.

Boone flushed, hearing footsteps enter the tent, smelling the rich scent of cooked meat, fried eggs.

The Courier looked over him, his eyes dark now, his grin more pleased. Catlike. Boone arched his back, puffing his painfully full belly out further, taking both his hands and running them over the naked thing.

The Courier leaned down, plate in hand, spearing a massive forkful of steak and eggs. He brought it to Boone’s lips.

“Ready for more?”

Two men of few words.

To Boone and to the Courier, this one question was three.

‘Do you want to keep eating?’ ‘Do you want me to feed you?’ ‘Do you want to get  **fat** ?’

And so Boone replied to all of them.

“Yes.”


End file.
